George

by Alex Gino

  When the bell to end recess rang, Ms. Udell met her class in the playground instead of waiting for them upstairs as she usually did. Mr. Jackson stood beside her. Ms. Udell took the cast to the auditorium to practice onstage, leaving the remainder of the fourth grade in the school yard with Mr. Jackson to form the crew.

  Mr. Jackson was a tall black man with a mostly bald head and a thick mustache. He called his crew to sit in a circle under the rusted basketball hoop. A half-dozen cans of paint, a bag of brushes, some buckets, a heap of cardboard, and several large tarps waited in a pile underneath the bent rim.

  “Okay. We’ve hashed out costumes, props, and music,” said Mr. Jackson. “Now it’s time to create the backdrop for our actors, to bring literature to life! Remember, the lifeblood of a play is its crew. If the actors are like Wilbur, the star of the fair, then we are like Charlotte, the unseen heroes who got him there. Now let’s help our stars put on SOME PERFORMANCE.”

  Before the crew could begin painting, Mr. Jackson said they needed to develop a game plan. They argued about where to sketch hay bales, the pig trough, and Templeton’s nest, and whether they needed to paint the Arables’ kitchen at all. But everyone agreed that a dark corner at the top right would be perfect for Charlotte and her webs. Mr. Jackson would provide a ladder to set up behind the backdrop for Charlotte to appear from above.

  George kept quiet until it was time to choose members of the crew to help out onstage, but then her hand was up first. If she couldn’t be Charlotte, she could at least deliver the large cards with the painted spiderweb words on them to Kelly. She would also hold the ladder steady while Kelly performed from the top. She would be Charlotte’s Charlotte, deeply hidden in the shadows.

  Two girls and a boy from Mr. Jackson’s class would carry props onstage and off. Rick volunteered to raise the curtain. Jeff didn’t sign up for a job. He said he’d rather eat a spider than come back to school in the evening. The stagehands were advised to wear all black on the day of the performances so they wouldn’t stand out during the show.

  Finally, it was time to get to work painting the main backdrop for the play. The crew laid heavy tarps over the cracked blacktop yard. The tarps were covered in blobs and trails of yellow, blue, orange, and red. The canvas stuck to itself and crackled as the students unfolded it. Mr. Jackson handed out smocks made from large men’s button-down shirts. Jeff refused to wear one, saying it looked too much like a dress. Four students unfolded a mass of white cloth to lay out over the tarp. It was made from two flat bedsheets sewn together, and would be their backdrop.

  Each member of the crew was given an assignment. George’s job was to paint the pig trough. She laid down a base of brown paint. Once the edges dried a bit, she would outline it and add some detail in black. While she was waiting, she dunked her brush into a plastic cup of mucky, murky water. She swished the paintbrush around, watching the brown sludge swirl, revealing wisps of green. As she was sweeping the paintbrush across a corner of canvas to dry out the brush, she heard Jeff and Rick chatting.

  “What do you wanna pull the curtain for?” said Jeff, his voice filled with disdain.

  “I don’t know,” said Rick. “I just, you know, thought it would be fun.”

  “I think it would be more fun to pull the curtain down right in the middle of the show!” Jeff laughed.

  Rick gave a hollow chuckle. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Oh, come on, Rick! What’s your deal? All of a sudden, it’s like you care about this dumb play. Look at you, worried about how many strings there are on a thing of hay.”

  “They’re called bales, and Mr. Jackson said that the string is called twine.”

  “Who cares?” said Jeff. “You’re being a suck-up.”

  “I am not!” Rick yelled, and flicked his brush at Jeff. A stream of yellow sun streaked down the white cotton sheet. “Now look what you made me do.” Rick searched for a rag and tried to wipe off the paint.

  “Whatever.” Even though George couldn’t see him, she knew Jeff was rolling his eyes.

  “What’s the big deal anyway? She’s just a stupid spider. Do you know what I’d do if I met a talking spider?” Jeff waited for Rick to respond, but Rick was focused on his brushstrokes. Jeff’s wide brush sat in a pool of yellow on the tarp below a half-painted hay bale.

  “I’d step on her. Crush her under my foot like the freak she is. Freaky spider. Stupid, freaky spider.” Jeff began to sing an unformed tune. “Stupid, freaky spider. I’m gonna step on you because it’s what you deserve, you stupid, freaky spi-i-der. I’m glad you diiiiiiiiieeed.”

  George’s face felt hot. Jeff had no right to talk about Charlotte like that. Jeff was always saying something mean. Charlotte wouldn’t stand for it, and George wouldn’t either.

  She grabbed a blank piece of paper, a cup of black paint, and a thin brush. She laid out the paper and set to work. By the time she was done, she was quite pleased with her own creation. Charlotte wasn’t the only one who could express herself through the well-crafted word.

  George lifted the paper carefully and held it at her side between a finger and her thumb. She was so worried about whether the paint was already dry or whether the paper would smear against her leg that she barely thought about what she was doing or who she was doing it to. Meanwhile, her feet propelled her fast and hard toward her target.

  Jeff was lying facedown on the pavement. He slathered a blue sky on the top of the canvas, leaving gobs of paint as he worked. Rick crouched nearby, painting a black line around the edge of a hay bale.

  As George passed Jeff, she dropped the paper. It was a direct hit, landing perfectly on his back, right in the middle of his white T-shirt.

  “Hey, what the heck?” Jeff’s head whipped around.

  “Sorry,” said George. She whisked the paper off his back and grinned wildly.

  “What a klutz,” Jeff snorted, and returned to his blue sky. He had no idea that the words SOME JERK glistened in black paint on his shirt, fashioned inside a simple spiderweb. Jeff was SOME JERK, and now everyone would know it.

  George bit her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. It had worked! The J was backward, but the words were clear. George crumpled up the paper and threw it into the big black trash bag.

  It wasn’t until George sat back down that she froze. The color drained from her face, and her tongue seemed to swell. Jeff would realize what had happened soon, and he would know who had done it. She was dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.

  George eyed Jeff nervously until Mr. Jackson announced it was time to pack up. Without cleaning a thing, Jeff lined up along the fence, and Rick followed. Suddenly, there was a gasp from Rick, and a scream from Jeff. Jeff whipped his T-shirt around.

  “What the … ?” His voice trailed off as he met Mr. Jackson’s glare, but his eyes gleamed with fury. He rubbed his shirt as best he could, but it was too late; the paint was dry. Jeff gave up and turned it inside out, the tag pointing up and into his hair.

  George could smell her own sweat. Her neck felt hot, then cold and wet, then hot again. Her body wanted to run. Then Jeff was right in front of her. Rick was behind her.

  “Hey, Rick. It looks like someone’s finally starting to grow some balls.” Jeff thumped his right fist into his left palm.

  George looked down at her feet and hoped that neither of the boys noticed the flush that filled her cheeks. There was nothing George dreaded more than when boys talked about what was in her underpants. Her cheeks grew so hot that she felt like metal. She wished she were made of metal, with laser eyes that could slice Jeff in two.

  But she wasn’t made of metal, and her eyes were as helpless as the rest of her. Jeff was a head taller, and he was thick too. Jeff’s pinkie was the size of George’s index finger, and Jeff kept pounding his fist into his other hand. Rick stood behind George. He wasn’t as tall as Jeff, but he was taller than George, and stronger.

  Putting a hand on each of her shoulders, Rick easily held her in place. George felt a hard pit forming deep in her sto
mach. She looked over at Mr. Jackson, who was surrounded by students and art supplies.

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you, freak? You think you can mess with me? You’re such a freak. You’re a freak. Freak. Freak.” Jeff flicked his finger against George’s forehead with each freak. His words crawled under her skin, settling deep into the crevices of her bones.

  Without warning, Jeff pumped his arm back and launched his fist into George’s stomach. She stumbled a few steps back into the chain fence, doubled over, and clutched at her waist, gasping for breath.

  George’s body spasmed. She retched once. She retched twice. She opened her mouth wide and vomit spewed forth in an arc that started at Jeff’s shoes and splattered all the way up to his face. Then she slumped to the ground in a heap.

  “Ew!” Jeff screamed, wiping his face and then looking at his hands in horror. “Ewwwww!!!”

  Rick snickered.

  “Shut up!” yelled Jeff, tearing off the shirt he was already wearing inside out because of the web declaring him SOME JERK. He wiped his face and spit furiously. He reeked of the acidic barf that dripped down his pants. Chunks of burger and corn soaked his shoes. He jumped away in horror, but couldn’t get away from the stench.

  Mr. Jackson ran over to the scene. “Now, what’s going on here?” he asked. “George, are you okay?”

  Jeff was a sputtering, shirtless mess. George was still on the ground, holding her stomach, tears in her eyes. A crowd of students had gathered around.

  “That kid punched that other kid,” said a boy from Mr. Jackson’s class, pointing at Jeff. “And then that kid”—his finger turned to George—“went BLECCCCCH and hurled and it flew and landed all over that kid.” His finger pointed back at Jeff.

  “Thank you very much for the play-by-play, Isaiah. Now if you would please get in line.” Mr. Jackson addressed the fourth graders. “In fact, if you would all please get in line. Jeff, I want you at the very front with me. George, you too.”

  Mr. Jackson helped George up. George’s stomach hurt, and her mouth felt raw. The word freak echoed between her ears. She followed Mr. Jackson and Jeff, who was still shirtless, into the school. The outside world felt distant, and she couldn’t make out the whispers of the fourth graders behind her.

  On the way, Mr. Jackson stopped at the main office to get a school T-shirt for Jeff. Ms. Davis, the school secretary, brought one out. She had a small face, an even smaller nose, and short dark hair that grayed at the temples.

  “This vomit reeks,” Jeff complained. “I gotta clean up first.”

  Ms. Davis sighed. “I’ll take them, Mr. Jackson.” She turned to Jeff and George. “But I’m coming in with you. No monkey business.”

  George, Jeff, and Ms. Davis went into the boys’ bathroom together. George hovered by the trash can near the door.

  “Don’t you want to wash up too?” the secretary asked.

  George shook her head. Her mouth still tasted of sick.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Jeff put his head under the faucet to rinse it, and wadded up a bunch of paper towels to wipe down his upper body. He put his shirt in the sink and ran water on it, but Ms. Davis told him to hurry up. Jeff grumbled, wrung out his shirt, and put on the T-shirt she had given him.

  Ms. Davis walked Jeff and George back to Room 205. Ms. Udell and Ms. Davis whispered at the door for a few moments. Then Ms. Davis stepped inside the classroom, and Ms. Udell came out into the hallway.

  “Mr. Jackson spoke with me about the incident in the yard,” she said in her iciest voice. “Jeffrey, can you please explain to me why you punched George in the stomach?”

  “He ruined my shirt!” Jeff shouted.

  “Mr. Forrester.” Ms. Udell addressed Jeff by his last name. “I will thank you not to yell in the hallway. Further, there is no excuse for violence on school grounds, or anywhere else, for that matter. Much less for the sake of a shirt. Mr. Jackson is writing up an incident report. When he is done, Ms. Davis will escort you both back down to the main office, where your parents have been called and will be picking you up.”

  George and Jeff waited in the hallway with Ms. Davis, Jeff shooting evil looks George’s way the whole time. George stared at the ground. Once the incident report was done, the three of them headed down to the main office. George sat on the bench by the teachers’ old-time clock, her feet dangling below her. Jeff sat in a folding chair next to Ms. Davis, facing the window, kicking the desk until Ms. Davis told him to quit it. He would stop for about a minute, and then resume kicking, softly at first, until Ms. Davis yelled at him again.

  George’s mom entered the office and rushed past George without even noticing her. Ms. Davis pointed her directly into Principal Maldonado’s office and advised George to follow.

  George had never been in the principal’s office before and was surprised by how bright it was. Orange curtains framed windows that reached nearly to the ceiling, and piles of books were stacked around the room. Principal Maldonado sat at a large desk in the center of the room and invited Mom and George to sit across from her in two brown cushioned chairs. The principal had short gray hair and wore a turquoise necklace over a black turtleneck. She was a fat woman whose broad shoulders filled her chair with an easy self-confidence.

  “Now, Mrs. Mitchell, George has defaced student property, and that is a serious offense. However, given the nature of the incident, as well as lack of a prior record on George’s part, I would just as soon resolve this as simply as possible.”

  As the principal spoke, George’s eyes scanned the wall behind her. List upon list of phone numbers and email addresses were taped up to the lower half, interspersed with handwritten notes held up with thumbtacks pressed directly into the wall. Dozens of signs hung above, telling kids to eat right, not to take drugs, to do their homework, and not to be a bully. A sign in the far corner showed a large rainbow flag flying on a black background. Below the flag, the sign said SUPPORT SAFE SPACES FOR GAY, LESBIAN, BISEXUAL, AND TRANSGENDER YOUTH.

  Reading the word transgender sent a shiver down George’s spine. She wondered where she could find a safe space like that, and if there would be other girls like her there. Maybe they could talk about makeup together. Maybe they could even try some on.

  George stared at the sign and thought about finding other girls like her while Mom and the principal chatted. Principal Maldonado asked about recent changes in home life—but there hadn’t been any since Dad left three years ago. Finally, the principal said, “Why don’t you take George home for the day to give him some time to cool down, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  Mom thanked Principal Maldonado, who then turned her attention to George. “I wouldn’t make a habit of bothering Jeff. Some kids like trouble, and they’ll do whatever they can to find it. And if you land back in this office again, I can promise you I won’t be so lenient.”

  George hoped she’d never find out what that meant.

  Mom didn’t say anything in the car about the fight. Instead, she turned on a radio station that promised v-v-v-vintage modern rock and sang along with the choruses. When they got home, Mom suggested George wash up.

  In the bathroom, George combed her hair forward. If she squinted at the mirror, she almost looked like a girl. For now, anyway. Today her skin was smooth, but someday testosterone would grow a terrible beard all over her face. Scott had already started to sprout awkward tufts under his chin.

  She brushed her hair back to its usual style and headed to her room to flop on her bed. A few minutes later, a quiet knock came on her bedroom door.

  “Can I come in?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah.” George sat up and Mom took a seat at the foot of the bed.

  “George, I’m going to be honest. I worry about you. There are a lot of kids like Jeff out there, and plenty who are worse.” Mom blew a puff of air up at her bangs. “I mean, being gay is one thing. Kids are coming out much earlier than when I was young. It won’t be easy, but we’ll deal with it. But being that kind of gay
?” Mom shook her head. “That’s something else entirely.”

  “I’m not any kind of gay.” At least, George didn’t think she was gay. She didn’t know who she liked, really, boys or girls.

  “Then why did I find all those girls’ magazines in your closet?” Mom raised an eyebrow, and a curved wrinkle formed across her forehead.

  George drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Then another.

  “Because I’m a girl.”

  Mom’s face relaxed and she gave a short laugh. “Is that what this is about? Oh, Gee, I was there when you were born. I changed your diapers, and I promise you, you are one hundred percent boy. Besides, you’re only ten years old. You don’t know how you’ll feel in a few years.”

  George’s heart sank. She couldn’t wait years. She could hardly wait another minute.

  “Tell you what,” Mom said, patting George’s knee. “How about we do something special tonight. Let’s go to Arnie’s.” Arnie’s All-You-Can-Eat Buffet was George’s favorite restaurant. “You’ll feel better once you’re eating nachos and pizza and pie like a regular kid. For now, just chill for a bit. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  George knew Mom was trying to make her feel better, but it didn’t work. Nothing—certainly not a buffet dinner—could help the fact that Mom didn’t see her.

  Mom took her laptop into her bedroom and came out only to refill her seltzer glass. Once again, George wished she had her magazines to look at. Instead, she watched cartoons on the sofa until school was over at three. She knew it took Kelly about twenty minutes to get home on the bus—and sure enough, the house phone rang at 3:22. George picked up the cordless extension and headed to her room.

  “What happened to you?” Kelly asked, not bothering to say hello. “Everyone’s saying you picked a fight with Jeff. But I told them that was impossible because you’ve never been in a fight in your life, and that Jeff must have been the one to start it. I mean, really, who’s gonna pick a fight—you or Jeff? What did he do to you? Are you okay? I mean, you’re obviously not in the hospital or anything, but man, they said he got you good. And did you really throw up on him? Because seriously, that might be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”